by Linda Ford
Hatcher stopped where the laneway intersected the road and stared toward the only home he’d ever known. He ached to visit but would the new owners welcome him or had they heard of what he’d done? Would they chase him off with a long gun?
Something tickled his nose. He brushed at it. Saw moisture on his fingertips. Stared at it in startled wonder. He touched his cheek again. Tears? He didn’t cry, didn’t even know how.
He scrubbed at his cheeks with the heels of his hands. Didn’t intend to learn in the middle of the road.
He blinked to clear his vision. Where would he find his father? Didn’t expect he’d be living in the big house with the new owners. Last time he’d seen the older man he’d been as dirty and ragged as any hobo Hatcher had encountered. Sure, he’d lost everything due to his own greed and carelessness. That didn’t excuse letting himself go. He could at least have tried to pull things together instead of just giving up.
The tractor circled the field and stopped at a corner. The driver jumped off and trotted toward the house. Sure ran like Lowell. His mind was playing tricks, mixing his memories with reality.
The man glanced toward the road, saw Hatcher there and veered toward him. Hatcher’s shoulders sucked up as he prepared for the usual curt dismissal.
The man truly reminded him of Lowell. His loose gait, the way he swung his long arms, the right one always pumping harder than the left. Even the way he wore his hat tipped to one side.
The man slowed his steps, stared at Hatcher, pulled off his hat and shook his head, revealing hair as black as Hatcher’s own.
“Lowell?” Could it be possible?
“Hatcher? Hatcher. Where have you been?” Lowell closed the distance in five leaps and crushed Hatcher to his chest. “My brother, I have waited and prayed for this moment.”
Even if his arms weren’t pinned to his side by Lowell’s embrace Hatcher couldn’t have moved. His feet gripped the dirt, curling the soles of his boots. It was all that anchored him. The rest of him felt like bits of wood randomly tossed together so they formed no definable shape. Nothing in his mind formed any better shape.
He felt moisture on his cheeks. His tears or Lowell’s?
“Is it really you?” He hardly recognized the hoarse whisper as his own voice. It sounded as though it came from some distant spot above his head.
There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother. Proverbs eighteen, verse twenty-four.
“Hey, brother. It’s good to see you.” Lowell’s voice was muffled as he continued to press his cheek to Hatcher’s.
Finally, with a little laugh, Lowell pulled away, his hands gripping Hatcher’s shoulders as if he couldn’t or wouldn’t let him go. “Thank God you’ve returned.”
Hatcher stared at his brother. “You’re crying?”
“I’m that glad to see you.”
“I heard Father was here. I came to see him. Didn’t think I’d see you, too.”
“Father lives with us.”
Hatcher shook his head. None of this made any sense.
Lowell draped his arm across Hatcher’s shoulders. “Come on and I’ll tell you all about it.” He led him up the lane toward the house.
Hatcher’d heard of dreams so real you couldn’t be sure they weren’t. In fact, he’d had a few of them himself. But usually he jerked awake about the time he walked toward home. He kept expecting that sudden jarring, breathless, disappointed feeling when wakefulness dropped him back into reality. But one step followed the next until they stood in front of the door.
“Marie, come see who I found. Father, you, too.”
Now. It would end now. Just as the door opened.
But the door flew back, a very blond, petite woman rushed out, a towel in her hands.
“Marie, this is my brother, Hatcher.”
The young woman launched herself off the step into Hatcher’s arms. He had no choice but to hold her as she kissed and patted his cheek.
Hatcher set Marie on her feet, let his fingers linger a moment on her arm, waiting for the flesh to disappear when the dream ended. She continued to smile magnificiently.
He blinked. It must truly be reality. “Your wife?” he drawled.
Lowell laughed. “I told you he was droll.”
Hatcher grinned at the teasing familiarity and felt the need to say something in kind. “And you have no doubt discovered Lowell is deadly serious at all times.”
Marie giggled. “Oh, indeed, that’s exactly what he is.”
“Lowell, what is it?” A familiar voice called from the small outbuilding that had always been their Father’s workshop.
“Father, come see what the dog drug home,” Lowell called.
“Lowell, what an awful way to talk about the brother you’ve worried about for years,” Marie scolded.
Hatcher grinned at his brother. “You have?” He thought they’d be relieved to never see him again, supposed his name was never mentioned. Then his attention focused on the man who hurried toward them.
The older man stopped ten feet away. His mouth worked soundlessly at first. “Hatcher. You’ve finally come home.”
“Yes, Father.” He waited for the rejection he feared.
Tears poured down his father’s face. He sobbed once, choked a bit and said, “You are as welcome as rain, my boy.”
Hatcher closed the distance between them and hugged his father with a hunger bridging ten years. “Father, I am sorry. I hurt you. I sinned. Can you ever forgive me?”
The older man repeatedly patted Hatcher’s back. Hatcher found the rhythm strangely comforting.
“Son, you have no need to ask my forgiveness. It is I who did wrong. I lost the farm and with it, I quit caring. You didn’t deserve that. Either of you.”
Hatcher’s shoulders relaxed as if he’d shed a ten-year-old, rock-laden knapsack.
“Come in, all of you. Dinner’s ready and waiting.” Marie shepherded them inside the kitchen, rich with the scent of savory meat. She quickly added a plate to the table and the four of them sat down together as a family for the first time.
“Just like—” Hatcher broke off before he could finish.
“Just like when Mom was alive except now it’s Marie.” Lowell took his wife’s hand and squeezed. Then he bowed and prayed. “God, our hearts are full of gratitude this day. Thank You for Your many mercies, for today restoring my long-lost brother to us.” His voice thickened and he paused. “Thanks for the food, too,” he finished hurriedly, as if tacking it on as an afterthought.
Hatcher, finally believing it was more than a dream, had a mind full of questions. “Johnny Styles said someone had purchased the farm.”
Lowell stuck his chest out. “I did. And Father helped. He’d been saving his money.”
Their father chuckled. “At the rate I was going it would be a hundred years before I had enough to make an offer.”
Lowell playfully punched Hatcher’s shoulders. “I made some money out in California. My aim was always to get the farm back. Brother, we put in too much sweat equity to let some stranger reap the benefits.” He sobered and studied Hatcher’s face. “I always intended both of us would be here but you plumb disappeared off the face of the earth. Where have you been?”
Hatcher felt their expectant waiting. “Nowhere. Everywhere. Mostly trying not to remember who I was, what I’d done.”
Father leaned forward. “You are my son. You are a Jones. And you’ve done nothing to run from. What happened was an accident. Everyone knows that.”
“I’ve been into trouble again. Called on Johnny to help me again.”
“Another accident?” Lowell asked.
“Nobody died this time if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t.” Lowell gripped his shoulder. “I meant whatever happened, I know it wasn’t your fault.”
“Sorry. I gue
ss I’m still defensive.”
Lowell snorted. “So what happened?”
Hatcher told them the story. He should have known the one thing they’d hook on to was the mention of Kate.
“Tell us more about this Kate,” Marie said, passing him a serving of rhubarb crisp.
“She’s hardworking, determined and a good mother.”
“Is she pretty?” Marie asked.
“She’s not ugly.”
Lowell chuckled. “Hatcher—the master of understatement.”
Father leaned forward. “Hatcher, why didn’t you come back sooner? It’s been ten years. I thought I’d die without seeing you again.”
Hatcher glanced from one to the other around the table. A great gulf existed, an expansion as wide as the Dakota sky, between the last time he’d seen his father and brother and now. “How can I expect any of you to understand what it’s like to have a temper you can’t control?”
His father laughed, a sound as full of sadness as mirth. “You were a boy. A boy who had been through a lot.” He sobered. “Some of it my fault. Boys, I am sorry about losing the farm.”
“Father,” Lowell said. “It’s water under the bridge.”
Father thanked Lowell than turned back to Hatcher. “You might find this hard to believe but I, too, was known as a firebrand when I was young.”
Lowell and Hatcher both stared. Lowell voiced Hatcher’s disbelief. “You? I’ve never known you to lose your temper. Although—” he grinned at Hatcher “—you were a slave driver and didn’t tolerate any nonsense from us.”
Father nodded. “A man outgrows some of his youthful exuberance and learns how ineffective anger is. Course I have to give your mother credit for her influence, as well. Nothing like the love of a good woman to settle a man.”
Lowell took Marie’s hand and they smiled as if they were alone at the table. Hatcher’s thoughts turned to Kate. Sweet, beautiful Kate, who’d taken a chance on him, then begged him to stay. How was she doing now? Had she found someone to take Hatcher’s place? His lungs caught with missing her.
Father cleared his throat. “All young bucks are rash.”
Hatcher studied the fork in his hand. How many young bucks did his father know who flew into uncontrollable rages? For from within, out of the heart of men, proceedeth evil thoughts...murders...all these evil things come from within, and defile the man. Mark seven, verse twenty-one and twenty-three.
Only it wasn’t evil, angry thoughts he had at that moment. He pictured Kate playing tag out by the coulee, her laughter—
Lowell tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, little brother, what are you smiling about?”
Hatcher hadn’t realized he was. “Just thinking.”
When Lowell saw Hatcher didn’t intend to say more, he pushed his chair back. “I found me a great cook, wouldn’t you say?”
Hatcher smiled at Marie. “It was a lovely meal. Thank you.”
“We’ve saved your old bedroom for you,” she said in her soft, gentle voice.
Hatcher’s eyes stung. “I hadn’t planned to stay.”
Lowell grinned. “Got someplace to be? Maybe back with a little gal named Kate?”
If only he could go back. He shook his head.
Lowell’s expression grew serious. “Hatcher, you’re not going to keep running.”
Hatcher felt three pairs of eyes studying him but he stared at the tabletop.
“I don’t understand,” Lowell persisted.
“I don’t expect you to.”
“Explain what you’re afraid of.”
Hatcher stared at his brother. “Are you really so thick? I’m not going to take the chance I might again hurt someone when I lose my temper.”
Lowell leaned forward until they were nose to nose. “Tell me something, little brother. When was the last time you were angry?”
Hatcher refused to answer but he knew. When he found Mary being bullied.
“I see you remember. And tell me. What did you do? Did you throw your fists? Pick up something to attack with? Did you feel like inflicting bodily harm?” Lowell leaned back. “I can see by your eyes that you didn’t.”
“Your point?”
“When I last saw you, you couldn’t sit at a table without clenching your fists. You wore a scowl day and night. You didn’t sit in a chair like you intended to relax. You were like an overwound spring.” He sat back triumphantly. “You’ve changed but seems you don’t realize it. It’s time you let go of the past.”
Father watched them keenly. “Hatcher, this is your home.”
Hatcher looked from one to the other and slowly nodded. “I’ll stay for a few days.”
Lowell clapped him on the back. “You can help me with the haying.”
Hatcher laughed. “So you’re just looking for a cheap hired man.”
Lowell grinned. “Come on. I’ll show you what we’ve been doing.” Father joined them as they walked along the fields and discussed crops and weather and cows. Some things had changed. More land had been broken, one field seeded with tame grass. And the rock piles had grown bigger. He nudged Lowell. “Glad I wasn’t here for that.”
Over the next few days, Hatcher worked alongside Lowell and Father. The work had a calming familiarity to it. To look up from his work and see the same hills, the same buildings, the same father and brother crossing the yard did something to his soul. He didn’t want to call it healing or cleansing. He’d rather call it something more practical. Like familiarity.
Sunday rolled around. The family had always gone to church. No questions asked. When Hatcher lounged at the table in his work clothes, the three of them stared at him.
“You going to church in that?”
He had more clothes now. Marie had seen to that. And he had the suit Kate gave him for the trial so he couldn’t plead it was the best he had. They all knew better. “Not going to church.”
Three pairs of eyes blinked as if they’d never heard of someone not attending.
Father grunted but Lowell got in the first word. “I know what’s going on. You’re afraid to face the people. Well, little brother, I hate to burst your self-important bubble but you’re the only one who is still thinking about the accident. Everyone else has moved on. Lived lives. Got married. Had babies. Lost parents. For us, for the community, what happened ten years ago is a long time in the past.”
Hatcher grunted. “Easy for you to decide that.”
“Find out for yourself,” Lowell challenged. “Or do you prefer to keep living the way you have been? Shutting out family, always on the move? Come on, Hatch, it’s time to move on.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “Unless you’re afraid of the truth.”
Chapter Nineteen
Kate struggled with her decision but finally asked Mr. Sandstrum to help with the hay in return for a share of it.
It created a problem for her. The hay crop was thin as the hair on Old Sam Jensen’s head. She scratched around for every blade, knowing it would be precious as gold before the winter ended. Giving some of it away in exchange for help left her with the knowledge she’d run short but it came down to some of the hay was better than leaving it to dry up in the field.
She had the few loads Mr. Cyrus had managed to haul in between naps.
With the last load of hay done, hauled away in Mr. Sandstrum’s wagon, there was a lull in the farmwork and slowly her back began to heal.
The garden needed constant attention. She still couldn’t lift a bucket of water without pain so the children helped her haul water to the struggling plants. They helped hoe out weeds, too, but still there was much they couldn’t do.
Day after day, Kate wondered if she’d made a mistake insisting on keeping the farm. Not that she would marry Doyle. She paused, smiling as she leaned over the hoe handle. Seems Doyle would be moving on anyway. The sheriff
had charged him with obstruction of justice for planting the money in Hatcher’s belongings. They still hadn’t discovered the culprit responsible for the robbery. A hobo, long gone, seemed the most likely explanation.
She returned to hilling the potatoes and thinking about the farm. It represented home and security for herself and the children but unless she found help...
If only Hatcher would come back. She missed him so much. She glanced toward the shanty, remembering his loose gait as he came for breakfast.
She did what she did every time she thought about Hatcher many, many times throughout the day. She prayed. Lord, keep him safe. Provide a warm dry place for him. Help him realize he’s loved. And help me know what to do about the farm.
The pain in her back grew too much to bear and she leaned the hoe against a post and returned to the house. The children were at school. Only a few more days before they’d be home for the summer.
How would she manage? She’d promised herself she’d give them more attention than she had in the past. Yet she had the farmwork to attend to as well as her regular household chores.
For the first time ever, the farm seemed burdensome, and instead of security, it felt like a ball and chain. She made herself a cup of tea and sat on the chair she’d left against the side of the house in the shade. She closed her eyes. But the sunlight drummed against her eyelids.
She sighed and fanned the hem of her skirt to cool herself. At least she had the relative relief of shade from her house and cool water from the well to quench her thirst.
Not like the many summers she’d spent with no protection but a scraggly bush and the tarp her father stretched out above them to provide protection. The sun didn’t beat directly on them but still the heat built unmercifully underneath the patch of canvas.
“Momma, did you ever live in a house?”
“Katie, what a question? We lived in a house all winter.”
Kate flung over on her side to study her mother. “It weren’t ours. And it didn’t keep out the snow. I mean did you live in a real house? One belonging to you?”